


why iii love the moon

by orchestra



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Fixation, Porn with Feelings, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Spoilers, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24351565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchestra/pseuds/orchestra
Summary: keiji chances a glance back at bokuto. he looks like he’s about to demonstrate excellent discus form with the server’s platter, feeding off of hinata saying he’s a greek god, and blatantly ignoring tsukishima’s cries to please not get them expelled again. keiji rolls up the sleeve of his sweater, and then (inhale) chucks a peanut and snipes bokuto right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. the peanut falls a shade more roasted, into hinata’s beer.in an instant, hoshiumi and tomas fall out their chairs laughing, narrowly missing kageyama’s spray of soda, and bokuto looks at keiji, lips in a pout, eyes in, well, even keiji can’t deny it, something ultradowny soft.“well, that’ll do it,” kuroo snickers.keiji opens his mouths, closes it, opens, closes, until he finally looks down at his hands underneath the table, uncrosses his legs, and sends a simple ‘yes.’37 weaknesses, and yet keiji’s the one feeling weak in the knees.--there are but a few constants in life. take, for example: the sun (clear, cloudy, rainy, star). the moon (new, half, full, harvest). the court (9x9, squeaky, thrumming, joy). their love for each other. oh, actually, shh. let's let them figure that on their own.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 23
Kudos: 180





	why iii love the moon

**Author's Note:**

> wow it's been (checks watch) six years huh? i somehow found myself falling back in l🍊ve with haikyuu, at a very different chapter in life, but still finding pleeeenty of room in my heart for these volleykids. THIS TIME! with renewed vigor for bokuaka. i caught up in the span of...idk a weekend? old habits die hard? or smth?
> 
> anyway. bokuaka. yall dont even get me fuckin start on ch 391-392. man.......dont....like..fuck man..............  
> anyway. bokuaka. gratuitous reunion fic. i imagine that they couldn't keep in close touch during those few years apart, and so, unspoken words, bubbling to the surface, yadda yadda
> 
> yes. well. thank u for stopping by. i hope u enjoy ur stay!
> 
> 🍊

when keiji finally opens his eyes, it’s quiet.

the ball is suspended off the ground, tucked tightly between hinata’s locked knees, and miya bleats through the net to ward off a kageyama winding up for what no doubt is a slide tackle against regulations. the referee blows his whistle with stuttered a tw-haha-tweet because it’s just beyond silly, these hooligans on the court, and the crowd is laughing. it’s all so loud and thriving and suffocating and yet, right now, from his spot in the bleachers, keiji can’t hear any of it. he can’t smell sakusa spraying salonpas in hoshiumi’s general direction, he can’t taste the victory carried through the brass and tears. he can only feel the chilling sweat in the bends of his arms and his knees, and the hardened grain of rice glueing his thumb to the palm of his hand. he can’t even hear the thunderous thumping of his heart underneath this sweater that’s just too heavy. (what was he thinking? had he already forgotten the sweltering tides that crash through court, every game, waves of that passion and determination to never falter?) he can only feel it, vaguely, in the tips of his toes. 

and he doesn’t see either, not really, the final score board, or meiai and hirugami shake hands, or tenma tie his hair back with an incredulous shake of his head. it isn’t until keiji lets his eyes finally drift down to the left corner of the court, and lets his ears open, and lets his hand slowly, slowly peel open to feel:

bokuto smiling up at him, eyes glowing stricken-gold bright and those lips shaping, thanks for coming.

keiji blinks. and then, pop! his heart bursts, and he feels a sensation crest deep in his chest before it all comes crashing in on him: the lights and the scents and the salt and the buzz and the roar of his own cheer blending in with the rest of the world, knowing full well that it’ll ride the wavelength straight into bokuto’s raised fists.

he feels a bit the fool when his voice cracks at the tail end of his holler. his glasses fog up hovering on the tip of his nose. he feels the energy, and it feels so good. he gulps in a breath as tenma slaps him on the back, laughing.

(of course not. how could he, with bokuto still smiling, arms open wide now, head tilted just so to show the strength in his shoulders and his radiating joy, ever forget this warmth?)

it’s his pleasure.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


at the tender age of twenty-two, keiji is pretty proud of his navigation skills and survival instincts in a city as voluminous and strung as tokyo, yet it’s the yokocho that always stump him. amidst shimmying bodies and sparring skewers, intoxicating aromas and intoxicated youth, keiji’s mind reels in buzzed sensorium. his feet feel like they’re dragging through sticky yakitori tare, and his eyes can’t seem to distinguish where one flapping noren ends and the next begins. he peers through a wooden door cracked ajar and comes face to face with a blonde girl who’s as confused as he is, probably, about what this place is, yet seems to be enjoying herself well enough. keiji quickly shuffles back before the hand behind the veneered podium can swipe for an entrance fee from his coat pocket. whoops.

“oh, let’s try that place next time. their mentaiko pasta is pretty crazy good.”

keiji turns on his heels. the pebbles beneath his shoes give easily to the turn. he chuckles. it’s been easier to laugh lately. “i’m surprised you’re familiar with places like these.”

“hey, i, too,” bokuto declares loudly, with a thump on his chest, “am a twenty-something enjoying his youth!”

“yeah, no, i meant like,” keiji rumbles, “the calibre.”

bokuto visibly deflates, much to keiji’s comfortable amusement, and perks up in an instant. “i’ll have you know, akaashi, i’ve been expanding my culinary boundaries. i’ve even been recognized on tabelog a few times!” the soft whisper of how do you spell culinary slips into the ceramic ochoko clinked in cheers.

keiji, eyes round, can’t stifle his laugh. never in a million fucking years would he ever had predicted bokuto becoming a fledgling foodie. “incredible as always, bokuto-san.”

a woman shouts a list of deals at her izakaya, two-for-one drafts, delicious charsiu, half-off shells. a raucous huddle of businessmen try to squeeze through a rickety door altogether, leaving no man behind. keiji's heart is racing. he’s sure bokuto can hear it too, as he breaches with two long strides to stand in front of keiji, that smile never once leaving his lips.

“i missed your praises,” bokuto gently says. he lifts a hand to the collar of keiji’s sweater. there’s a tug, and keiji’s eyes go wide wide wide. they flit from bokuto’s soft eyes, to the rice kernel held preciously between bokuto’s fingers. oh, god, keiji bemoans with a rush of red, you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. “they always gave me so much strength.”

“don’t,” keiji stutters, swatting bokuto’s hand away weakly, “expect more any time soon.”

bokuto seems to take it in stride, flicks the pebbled rice at a cigarette can on the ground by their feet. he makes it in. amazing (no, no. stay strong, keiji). “yeah? just wait ‘til you try these squid legs. i’ll show you just how incredible i’ve become.”

again, keiji laughs, this time so loudly, bokuto jumps in his shoes. “you’re not even the one cooking!” keiji cackles, and even bokuto laughs at his own silliness.

“hey, hey, hey! i’m a pretty decent cook, too!”

keiji shakes his head. “yeah, that, i don’t buy.” he shifts past bokuto and heads off into the crowds, hears bokuto trail after him, chirruping, guess you’ll just have to come over one day and see for yourself! keiji doesn’t open his mouth to respond though. he can’t trust himself with words right now, threatening to bubble over even in sobriety, and continues on to the beat of some tinny modern enka spilling through the window of a ramen shop. 

“hey,” float bokuto’s words, and rough, warm fingers clasp keiji’s own. keiji looks over his shoulder, exhales into the nippy evening. bokuto is rosy pink. “goin’ the wrong way.”

bokuto’s smile is so fond that keiji can’t help but sigh. “lead the way, captain.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


bokuto has thirty-seven weaknesses. number twelve is that he (still) can’t split chopsticks down the middle cleanly. number seven: he chokes on water at a concerning frequency. number twenty-two: his eyes are larger than his stomach. soon into their twenties, keiji had addended: as well as his liver.

“‘s incredible,” miya groans around an edamame pod. “talks a big game about victory shots or whatever, but half a tallboy in, and next thing ya know,” he spits out the shell, ptooey, “he’s in tomas’ lap, sleepin’ like a baby!”

“very heavy baby,” tomas says, motioning with an exaggerated cradle of his arms and a pained expression on his face, and the table rumbles with laughter. “also sucks on his thumb.”

“i do not,” bokuto begs, and miya immediately counters, “you for fuckin’ sure do!” hinata cheers bokuto on with a rough pat on the back, says master’s doing a great job tonight so far. meanwhile, hinata himself is breezing by with his fourth pint. at any given point that night, someone’s probably wondering how else hinata had changed in brazil, with very few answers, other than, “oh, well, y’know!” no, hinata, honey, really, we don’t. 

“only ‘cause akaashi-san’s playing assist,” tsukishima smugly notes, and neatly divides a block of tofu in half, stable through the rattling from bokuto’s head making contact with the table. keiji blubbers his lips on the rim of his shochuu, and feels his cheeks tighten with a smile. 

“what would he be without you, huh?” kuroo pipes, not unwelcomed, though the wad of napkin lobbied at kenma’s head sure is. it rolls unceremoniously into kenma’s hoodie, which kageyma baps out, without so much of a bat of his lashes. kenma picks his head up from his bowl of natto and bears a look of sheer distaste. kageyama lifts his hand halfway up to his face, and proceeds to swipe the last tsukune from right under miya’s nose.

looking down at his drink, its bubbles slowly defizzing, and instead magically transferring to the base of his tongue, keiji blinks. “an ordinary ace,” he says quietly. a sliver of burdock root drops to the lacquered tabletop. kuroo, amusingly, looks distressed, and he begins to stammer with his fingers awry, starting off with, well, okay, not wrong, but, well, dude, until kenma interjects and firmly says: that’s not true.

keiji shrugs, takes a short sip. bokuto wobble-sits across from him down the other end of the table, with hoshiumi putting both of bokuto’s hands out on display for the audience to examine and see for themselves the pads of his fingers. bokuto’s turning red beside himself. they’re all, keiji thinks to himself, rough and warm.

“so what do you do,” keiji murmurs in kenma’s general direction, “when your ass goes numb mid-game?”

kenma looks up at keiji and laughs, with a whistle through his clenched teeth. “i just uncross my legs and shake it off."

keiji chances a glance back at bokuto. he looks like he’s about to demonstrate excellent discus form with the server’s platter, feeding off of hinata saying he’s a greek god, and blatantly ignoring tsukishima’s cries to please not get them expelled from yet another fucking spot in this neighborhood. keiji rolls up the sleeve of his sweater, and then (inhale) chucks a peanut and snipes bokuto right smack dab in the middle of his forehead. the peanut falls a shade more roasted, into hinata’s beer. the platter clatters into the server’s arm, and he graciously dashes from their table.

in an instant, hoshiumi and tomas are falling out their chairs laughing, narrowly missing kageyama’s spray of soda, and bokuto looks at keiji, lips in a pout, eyes in, well, even keiji can’t deny it, something ultradowny soft.

“well, that’ll do it,” kuroo snickers.

keiji opens his mouths, closes it, opens, closes, until he finally looks down at his hands underneath the table, uncrosses his legs, and sends a simple ‘yes.’ he rubs his palms along the seam of his jeans.

thirty-seven weaknesses, and yet keiji’s the one feeling weak in the knees.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


bokuto’s lips are soft.

“feels funny,” keiji whispers against them, though he wonders if any sound actually makes it past bokuto’s slick tongue against his own. bokuto presses, incessant and insistent, molds his mouth to keiji’s, slotting their lips together, wet and warm. the little nips on his bottom lip, the suck on the tip of his tongue, the fingers cradling his jaw so solidly, continue to edge keiji closer and closer to that funny fuzzy precipice. they hadn’t even flipped the lights on when they stumbled into bokuto’s foyer, and with the way bokuto kisses him, eye-crossing, all keiji can see is the bit of moonlight (from the sky? bokuto’s eyes?) tracing the bridge of bokuto’s nose.

“funny good?” bokuto breathes, for the first time maybe, in like, three minutes. keiji takes the opportunity to fill his own lungs up with the citrusy air between them. “hm?”

don’t make me answer that, keiji tries to say by running his tongue along the seam of bokuto’s mouth, and it seems to satisfy, slipping right into a welcoming mouth. it’s warm. keiji feels those long fingers entangle with the hair along his nape, those curls he can never ever seem to keep under control on rainy days, those curls bokuto says he adores so much. suddenly, his neck feels hot, under the soft pets and the memories of bokuto playing with his hair from the bleacher behind him, those late fall afternoons.

“so good, akaashi.” wet lips trail kisses down keiji’s chin, along the taut of his jaw, down the fine line of his neck. a harsh suck yanks a loud gasp out of keiji. “you make me feel so good.” keiji tilts his head back against the wall, and shivers as he feels the rumble of bokuto’s groan blaze the slope of his shoulders, his chest, down to his cock. “fuck,” bokuto murmurs. he soothes his mark with the flat of his tongue.

keiji’s eyes shut as he presses his nose into bokuto’s hair, as soft and unruly as always, and breathes in deeply. it’s refreshing. it's nostalgic. it’s spicy, it’s tantalizing, and as keiji sucks on the tip of bokuto’s ears and relishes in a hitched moan, he realizes, it’s what he’s been craving for so long. (how long? what, you think keiji's capable of doing math in a state like this? we'll settle with: too long.)

“me too,” keiji sighs, rolling up into bokuto’s hands now hot on his hips. he feels himself slide down the wall, leaning down and into those hands. he wonders what he must look like right now, for bokuto to stare so ravenously. it makes keiji feel—what's the word. desirable? in this time and place, several stops from that bus station the rain, a baton pass' reach from the station, one text message delayed.

those eyes, twin crescents, so clear and bright, harvesting their own light that keiji can finally make out the crease of bokuto’s brows, the heat on his cheeks, the fullness of his swollen lips. i did that, keiji thinks with a laugh.

“keiji.”

it rips through, hot from deep in bokuto’s chest. keiji can feel the ripples of bokuto’s muscles left in its wake. it holds keiji still. he looks down at their cocks pressed testingly together, close enough that he’s sure bokuto can feel how hard he is through his slacks. he rakes his eyes slowly back up to bokuto’s, and he hopes they’re pleading enough.

keiji opens his mouth for the thumb rubbing the corner of his mouth, and he sucks it in, as it pushes deeper, deeper in. he’s drooling. bokuto groans loudly.

“keiji.”

he revels in the way bokuto’s cock twitches against his nudging thigh, and in the way the fingers cupping his jaw tighten just a fraction more, as if to draw the curtain over bokuto’s blazing eyes. keiji feels his pulse quicken under bokuto’s palm. he gasps. “ah,” he blinks away the tears in his eyes as bokuto crowds into him impossibly closer and flicks his nipple once, twice, just for twisted fun, “ah, bokuto-san.”

it’s salty and sweet on his tongue as keiji laves around bokuto’s thumb, maybe a bit more desperately than he ever hoped to let on, but there’s very little he can hide behind the way he sucks around the base of the digit, or the shiver that wracks his body when he feels the nail graze the roof of his mouth, or the cry he lets out deep in his throat when bokuto grips his ass to drag keiji over his cock. fuck.

“keiji,” bokuto sighs into keiji’s shoulder, “i’m hungry.”

the thumb slips out with a wet pop, and keiji tries to smile. except it feels a little empty, and he wants it filled. he wants to be stuffed full. keiji, flushed, opens his mouth.

take a bite.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


keiji blinks up at the ceiling, and suddenly, a laugh bubbles up from his chest. jesus, keiji snickers behind the palm of his hand, sex brain, huh.

“hm?” keiji looks down to see bokuto sweetly grinning at him, chin resting comfortably on keiji’s chest, hand also resting comfortably around the base of keiji’s cock. the image is too fucking silly. keiji moves his hands up over his eyes, and laughs out loud again. “what’s so funny?”

“i just,” keiji starts, breath hitching when bokuto begins his journey of butterfly kisses down his chest and stomach, “realized how silly that sounded.”

“i thought it was cute,” bokuto replies and gives a gentle squeeze of his hand, relishing too smugly in the jerk of keiji’s hips. “and really sexy.”

keiji groans. “no, bokuto-san, it isn’t. you—it’s so goofy.” he jolts at the brush of bokuto’s length along his knee.

“nah, you’re really _really_ fuckin’ sexy, keiji.” his nipples perk at the sound of his name. fuckin’. “dirty talk is always hot.”

shaking his head, keiji runs his hands along bokuto’s broad shoulders, watches bokuto busy himself with peppering kisses on every centimeter of skin he can get his lips on. it’s soft and sweet, like powdered sugar dusting his hips. “is that right.”

“yeah. turns me on so much.” bokuto breathes hotly against the base of keiji’s erection. it twitches, and keiji flushes scarlet when he feels the head of his cock brush bokuto’s cheek a pearly highlight. “look at you. so hard for me.”

“oh, fuck,” keiji shudders. he’s beautiful. 

bokuto smiles slyly with hooded eyes, and before keiji can whisper his prayers for mercy to the goddess of the moon (no doubt looking down at them from her arch in the sky, rolling her eyes), bokuto spits on keiji’s cock and sinks his mouth down. “oh, fuck, bo— _oh_.”

bokuto takes him on a merciless pace, bobs his head in a rhythm that keiji’s hips can’t keep up with, has his tongue twisted in small mewls of pleasure soaked up by bokuto’s pillow. for every stuttered breath, in exchange, keiji inhales the scent of bokuto’s shampoo, the cedarwood of his cologne, and, god, the heavy and heady thoughts and dreams bokuto has had for days, months, years, of a scene just like this: keiji, spread out on his bed, bucking up into bokuto’s mouth with thin shame and thick desire, and drenching the sheets with his sweat and tears and come. it’s a suckerpunch to his nose and his gut, and keiji lets out a deep moan, something like thanks.

gritting his teeth, keiji looks down to where his hand has found purchase—deep in bokuto’s silver hair reflecting moonlight, growing more matted under the heat of keiji’s fingers. he tugs hard when he feels the head of his cock graze the back of bokuto’s throat, watching bokuto’s eyes brim with tears. it takes every ounce of will power to not just ascend earth and come right there. the universe is fair, and so keiji’s rewarded with the sight of bokuto grinding his hips down into the mattress, sloppy smile stretched around his girth, moaning content.

“fuck,” keiji punches out. “that’s it. shit.” 

bokuto pulls back agonizingly slowly, letting the head catch and drag along his cheek, then popping off with a harsh suck to the tip. he settles on his heels with testy licks to the base of keiji’s erection. finally, keiji gasps, some fresh fucking air.

“love your cock,” bokuto mumbles into keiji’s hip, barely giving the poor guy any moment to get oxygen to any organ other than his dick. 

but how could keiji be even remotely upset by bokuto’s antics, when he looks down and sees bokuto pawing at his cock with a look of slight consternation and consideration. his lips are puffy red and pushed out in a pout, and keiji is stricken. for once, he’s thankful for bokuto’s 37th weakness. but as quickly as the thought of, oh, how endearing, crosses keiji’s mind, it’s yanked right out of him when bokuto sucks one of his balls into his mouth.

keiji hisses. “yeah?” if he’s gonna go, he might as well with a bang. he inhales. “d-do you, bokuto-san?”

“mhm.” bokuto’s dazed, so endearing, so fucking beautiful with his cheeks splotchy pink and full. keiji strokes a knuckle along bokuto’s jaw. “love your cock so much. ’s the perfect size, perfect texture, perfect flavor.”

keiji gives himself three seconds to draw composure, but, no, never mind, at this point fuck all, he sucks in a big breath and guffaws. “what is this, a tabelog review?”

bokuto softly bites down and keiji’s eyes bulge. oh, so he has the audacity to _giggle_? “mhm. five stars, but wouldn’t recommend.”

kicking his feet in the air to fend bokuto off his balls (what, bokuto says with a jab of his eyes, you think i’m gonna let go that easy? but a smack on the head does it), keiji laughs, “what’s with that, bokuto-san? trying to run me into the ground?”

it quiets for a brief moment as bokuto pulls back, then drops a kiss on keiji’s cock, his left knee, his bellybutton, his right sixth rib bone, his adam’s apple, his nose. it’s brief, surely, because bokuto is still so flighty after all these years, never settling his talons for too long on any tree’s bough, in search for the next best in its myriad forms, and he knows how to navigate keiji, can scale the topography of his soul without breaking a simple sweat, and yet for keiji, as he watches those eyes brimming with wildflower honey warmth come closer, and closer, and closer, unblinking, unwavering, it feels an eternity. terribly so. god, he loves koutarou.

“no,” bokuto mumbles against keiji’s lips. “i just want it all to myself, duh.”

keiji crinkles his eyes, under the brush of rough pads along his brows. he can’t remember where his glasses went. he splutters under the rapid pecks and nips to his lips, the growled mm, delicious! omph omph omph. “all right, all right! slow down, please, no one’s gonna steal your food.” 

bokuto has his beak clamped to keiji’s bottom lip. keiji’s starting to lose feeling in his face. “good. all mine.”

keiji quivers at the very concept: his.

bokuto slowly pulls away, and keiji mourns the loss, then celebrates with a fluttery sigh the firm press of bokuto’s cock to his. the fabric of bokuto’s briefs is soft. the wet patch following the curve of the waistband makes keiji’s mouth water. he can smell it, the headiness of bokuto’s craving. those gilded eyes, glazed, with yearning, desire, hope.

“thank you for the meal.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“good, keiji? hmm?”

“yes—yes, bokuto-san, ah, yes, there,” keiji sings but he wonders if bokuto can even hear over the sharp slaps of burning skin against skin, the slick sounds of bokuto pounding into him that make keiji’s ears ring in embarrassment, the harsh pants painting keiji’s neck red. 

“here?” apparently he had, or maybe their hearts are just connected at this point (keiji smacks himself for such a goopy thought). bokuto halts his hips, rolls them deep and slow. keiji chokes on a cry as he grinds back. “hm? keiji.” bokuto fucks into keiji once, and keiji lets himself be held, trembling, in the suffocating heat of bokuto’s arms wrapped tight around his chest. 

“yes,” keiji gasps, lightheaded. “bokuto-san. please.”

bokuto laughs tight, “oh, keiji,” and slides one hand down to press firmly down on keiji’s waist. keiji gives under the weight, can’t move a single muscle besides his tongue against bokuto’s, but why would he want to anyway, when bokuto has him just where they both want him, fitted perfectly in his arms and around his cock. “baby.” keiji clenches (oops, he lied) around bokuto, and nearly purrs when bokuto twitches inside him. “tell me what you want.”

just fuck me, keiji thinks shortly, but the warm kiss to his shoulder blade smoothes out the anxious edge of his thoughts. it’s a loaded ask. really, what more could he demand of bokuto?

“anything,” bokuto breathes into keiji’s hair, right where keiji’s ticklish and remembers, remembers, remembers. like he could ever truly forget. “let me please you.”

soft, keiji runs his fingers down bokuto’s forearm, to bokuto’s elbow, reaches down his side, until his fingers connect with the trembling hand gripping onto him tight, as if afraid to slip, as if afraid to let go (again). keiji laces his fingers through those white hot fingers. and suddenly he feels, well, calm.

he runs a few thoughts through: choke me. pull my hair. fuck my mouth. fuck me onto your cock. make me cry. make me scream your name. come on my back. come inside me.

eventually, keiji sighs into the pillow against his cheek. it’s cool, because bokuto had flipped it for him sometime through the tussle. it makes keiji smile. 

keiji’s eyes close to the ticklish tracing of the shell of his ear. a familiar sensation, like transference through the medium of a light leather lobby. maybe that’s why holding hands feels so natural. keiji squeezes.

“tell me, the moon is so beautiful tonight, isn’t it.”

bokuto breathes.

and as it slowly dawns on keiji what he had just uttered, he feels his entire body flare hot (bokuto yelps, yowch!), then pop! his heart bursts, and he feels (once more) a sensation crest deep in his chest before it all comes crashing in on him: the darkness and their scents and the sweet of bokuto’s kisses and the thrum of bokuto’s heartbeat coursing through him, taking over because, that’s right, fuck. his.

then keiji feels bokuto burst into a small fit of giggles, by the blubber of lips against his shoulder, and the rumble of a tummy pressed to his back. (he tries not to think about bokuto’s cock stirring him up inside with the motions.) a brief flash of annoyance almost moves keiji’s hand to chop bokuto on the head again. he twists around under bokuto’s stupid weight, to glare some well-whittled daggers at this dense dunce for laughing, but they fall, withered flower petals, at the sight of bokuto’s full eyes and pink cheeks and shy, shy, shy smile.

“yes,” bokuto says. his smile waxes wobblier, wider, warmer. “it’s truly dazzling.”

and again, keiji laughs. 

a beautiful full moon.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


when keiji opens his eyes, he stretches his arms hiiiiiiigh up above his head. what time is it? what day is it? keiji can't tell how long he had been held by bokuto, or if any of that really—ow, okay, ass twinge very real. stirring to his side, keiji slowly, drowsily, comfortably notices: the curtains drawn tight to let sunlight spill through at an angle and shade indicative of only a restful snooze into the weekend; the shameful heaps of laundry scattered along the floor that the flooding light bares to witness; the sight of a broad back dressed only in a flimsy green apron shimmying to the sizzle crackle pop of sausages on the stovetop. sliding a hand over his face (and a touch embarrassingly wiping at the dried flakes on the corner of his mouth), keiji chuckles. his eyes drop to bokuto’s ass, also laid bare to witness by the voyeuristic sun, except it’s absolutely shameless and, probably, unlike the laundry, meant for keiji’s eyes. damn. keiji crosses his legs under the covers.

“good morning,” bokuto chirrups, throwing a smooch over his shoulder. “hungry?”

keiji’s stomach grumbles. yeah, he thinks, but not really for food. damn. he crosses them tighter.

bokuto, ever sharp-eyed, cocks a brow, then saunters back over to the bed, silly smile on his lips. he smells really nice, keiji stutters a thought, as bokuto leans down to land a kiss to keiji’s chest. keiji takes the opportunity to press his nose to bokuto’s neck and breathe in. “very nice.”

“yeah?” bokuto snickers. yes, keiji thinks. kinda like, apple blossom, clementine, pear, and—uh, oak barrel? hm, no, smoked cherrywood—hold on, wait a—

“bokuto-san!” keiji blares, shoving away bokuto who had started to slide his way on top of keiji’s body with the fucking spatula still in his hand. “the stove!”

bokuto pops a cute little o! on his lips, and pirouettes his way back to the burner, turning it off with flourish. he curtsies. keiji entertains him with applause.

and then once more, as they’re enjoying a late breakfast together at the table, for this omelette, perfectly folded, perfectly balanced in sweet and salty, perfectly leveled on bokuto’s chopsticks. keiji stares on, incredulous. bokuto stares back, unwavering.

keiji lifts his chopsticks, yanks the omelette from bokuto’s, and pops it in his mouth and chews before bokuto can protest and shove his fingers in. as soon as keiji’s satisfaction settles, bokuto swiftly picks up another piece, and presses it to keiji’s sealed lips.

keiji coughs. bokuto nudges. keiji swallows. bokuto goes ahh.

“but it’s,” keiji grumbles as best as he can without opening his mouth, “the last piece.”

bokuto, unblinking, chomps off precisely one-half off the omelette piece, then represents it to keiji. 

the sun is warm, coaxing the back of keiji’s hands and neck. their coffee shimmers to a train rumbling by, bicycle wheels hitting a small rock on the road, a duvet puffing and fluttering from a veranda in the wind. or maybe it’s to bokuto jiggling his leg underneath the table, knee hitting the top tap tap tap, or keiji drumming his fingers on the placemat, as he feels bokuto’s foot inch up his calf. the weather forecast is the soft backtrack to bokuto’s shaky slurp from his soup bowl, lips jutted out to meet the rim, eyes still trained on keiji, proffered hand trembling mid-air.

keiji laughs easily. he whispers a quick thank you, and takes a bite of the omelette off bokuto’s chopsticks. bokuto lets them clatter to the table, bottom lip quivering as he whimpers, “oh, keiji!” keiji quickly ducks his reddening face and begs bokuto please, please, no more.

(their fingers, warmed to the touch by the soup, by the sun, by that light, fit just right, and then it all feels terribly like home.)

bokuto beams. thanks for being here. keiji rolls his eyes, teasing, and flicks a grain of rice into bokuto’s coffee cup.

it’s my pleasure.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


(“what are your plans for this afternoon?”

“hm. i need to review a few pages, but otherwise.”

“there’s a really nice cafe nearby we can visit if you want!”

“it could take a couple of hours though. won’t you be bored?”

“i don’t mind at all, as long as i’m with—”

“stop!”

(muffled grumble)

“sorry, what was that?”

(gasp) “keiji, why are you so shy after everything we did last—”

“stop!”

(muffled laughter)

“i’m going to let go now, so please don’t say something so emb—don’t! lick me!”

“yum. we should drop by the market, too. have you tried the butter soy sauce sakeru cheese yet? i wanna get new snacks for practice.”

“i—no. let’s try it. if you don’t like it, i’m sure you could feed it to miya.”

“and get my fingers bitten off? no way!”

“true. besides, i’m the only one you can do that for.”

“keiji.”

(sip) “yes.”

“you’re quite brazen.”

“is that right.”

“yes, it is.”

“can we get some mikan, too?”

“good idea. we should get an extra toothbrush, too.”

“hm. that’s terribly domestic, bokuto-san.”

“well, that’s all your fault, isn’t it?”

“hm? huh?”

“you made me ordinary. you did!”

“...hm? huh?”

“now let’s go, before i change my mind and take you on the table.”

(laughter) (it’s koutarou’s favorite sound.)

“we have all the time in the world, bokuto-san.”

“oh yeah? in that case—”

“no! no more licking, please!”

“thank you for the meal!”

**Author's Note:**

> as im sure u may have seen before,  
> the moon is beautiful, isn't it? is a euphemism for i love you
> 
> anyway. bokuaka.
> 
> thank u for swinging with me. i hope this may leave a smile on ur face. have a wonderful day  
> 🍊


End file.
